John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“Your life may depend on it.”

“And my reputation, Roily, so that I can be trusted. Please believe in me.”

“You’re here to prove I can,” Rollison said.

They turned the corner. Lights shone over the facade of a building which showed clearly against the stars. That was Old Nob’s and it was less than a hundred yards away. The sound of music came floating gaily through the air and Rollison felt Clarissa’s arm go tense; but she didn’t slacken her pace. Three cars stood outside the dance-hall with sidelights on. Half a dozen men stood about the entrance. As Rollison drew nearer, one of them slipped inside with the tidings. The lobby was poorly lit. Photographs of the band and the cabaret “stars” who appeared nightly were stuck behind the glass fronts of small show-cases.

A strip of threadbare carpet led from the entrance to the pay-box and along a wide passage to the hall itself. A man with a broad, ugly face and oily dark hair, not unlike Waleski, sat in the pay-box, glowering as Rollison approached.

Rollison placed two half-crowns on the pay desk.

“You don’t have to go in,” the man said.

“I do, Tick.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Is Mellor here yet?”

The man named Tick did not answer but thrust two small pink tickets through the hatch. Rollison took them and gave them to Clarissa. She still wore the black-and-white check two-piece; her face was flushed and her eyes were even brighter than at the Lion. Music welled up—a rumba. The sliding noise of many feet on the polished floor came through the partly open door. A little man in a soiled, soup-spotted dinner-jacket stood by the door. He gulped as he took the tickets and opened the door for them to go through.

At the far end, on a low stage, a five-man band played frenziedly in the spotlight. On the floor, which was not overcrowded, a hundred couples danced with wild rhythmic abandon, laughing, grinning—or deadly earnest. A crowd gathered round the bar, in a corner near the door.

As if by clockwork, every head turned towards the door; even the band checked its swing and dancers missed their step. That was only for a second; they went on again swiftly; but there was less laughter, fewer people grinned or smiled and everyone watched Rollison and his partner, furtively or openly.

“Shall we dance?” asked Rollison.

Clarissa nodded.

Rollison hooked the sword-stick over his arm, led her to the floor and immediately whirled her into the thick of the dance. He knew in those few seconds that she was good; in spite of her tension, in spite of the watching eyes and the impending crisis, she danced easily and well; and gradually she began to warm up. They reached the stage and Rollison waved to the band-leader.

“Keep this one up, will you?”

The man didn’t answer but the music went on. Couples dropped out, too tired to go on, others came on the floor. Rollison seemed to give all his attention to the dancing, not to Clarissa; but he was watching as well as being watched. Not a face escaped his notice, hardly a movement. And Clarissa watched, too— looking for the sharp features and the beard of the man she knew as Mellor.

On and on; on and on—

Then a door by the side of the stage opened and Mellor came in with three men, one on either side and one behind him. He stood for a moment on the fringe of the dancefloor, then stepped on to it, towards Rollison and Clarissa.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Big Boss

Tension sprang in the room—something which could be felt, which affected everyone from the band to the barkeeper, from the giddiest girl to the oldest man. More people left the floor, cautiously, anxious not to be noticed by Mellor. None came on; no more than fifty couples danced now. The band played with a new frenzy, in keeping with the moment of crisis.

Mellor reached Rollison and tapped his shoulder.

Rollison said: “Hallo,” and smiled and went on dancing; but Clarissa moved stiffly now and kept missing her step.

“My partner,” Mellor said.

“Oh—yes, of course. It must be an “excuse me”, Clarissa.” Rollison surrendered her and Mellor took Clarissa in his arms. A sigh went up round the walls. Rollison glanced swiftly round, saw one of Ebbutt’s men dancing with a blonde who had known younger days, went up to them. “My dance?”

Ebbutt’s man made a queer noise in his throat.

The blonde said: “You’ve arst for it; you’ll get it.”

“Scared?”

“You bet I’m scared!”

“Prefer not to dance with me?”

“I’ll chance it,” she said. “You can dance.”

She smiled tautly and swung her body to the rhythm. Rollison whisked her across the floor, slipped in between Mellor and Clarissa and the couple next to him. Clarissa was like a wooden block. Mellor held her tightly to him. More couples dropped out: the floor seemed empty now. Rollison scanned the doors and saw two men at each, powerful men, most of them obviously on guard. They were Mellor’s men. So he had taken over Old Nob’s. If the police came, if Ebbutt’s men tried a raid, they would be unable to take anyone by surprise.

Outside there were runners, ready to rush in with the news of police approach. Mellor would not have taken the slightest chance tonight.

Mellor was grinning.

His dark, pointed beard made his face seem pale. His eyes glittered and he looked as if he had been drinking heavily. He was well-dressed—better than any man here, after Rollison. Except for the beard, there was nothing unusual about him.

He said clearly:

“You’ll see who’s the boss around here, sweetie.”

Clarissa didn’t answer.

“Rollison thinks he’s clever but he’s going to find out his mistake.”

Rollison grinned across. “That’s what Waleski said.”

The smile faded. “You don’t have to remind me about Waleski. I was talking to Clarissa,” Mellor went on. “Keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.”

They danced on. The blonde brushed her hair back from her forehead; she was sweating.

“I can’t stand this much longer,” she said. “You were crazy to come here.”

“You won’t have to stand it much longer.” They were near the band again and he winked at the band-leader and then stretched out his hand and touched Clarissa’s arm.

“Enjoying yourself?”

She didn’t answer.

“I told you—” began Mellor.

“Now, young Geoffrey, don’t get cross,” said Rollison. He released the blonde, whispered: “Go to the side,” and at the same moment Mellor dropped his arms from Clarissa. But he didn’t take up a fighting attitude: he just stood there, dumbstruck, as if the “Geoffrey” had drained away all his strength, as it had Clarissa’s.

* * *

Geoffrey Arden.

* * *

Rollison shouted: “Now!”

He grabbed Mellor round the waist and lifted him above his head as he snapped at Clarissa: “On the stage—now!”

He reached the stage a yard behind her and stepped over the low front as the bandsmen stopped playing and scrambled away. Men came rushing towards them, knives flashed, women screamed, the lights went out.

Rollison yelled at Clarissa: “The piano— hurry!”

She stumbled over a chair as torches shot out their bright beams. Mellor was kicking and struggling but still held above Rollison’s head. A glow of light came from the front of the piano, from the ground. Clarissa was outlined against it.

A knife flashed across the room, struck the front of the piano and set the wires tinkling and trembling.

Ebbutt stood at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps leading from the stage trapdoor to the cellar below. Rollison lowered Mellor and pitched him down.

A knife touched his shoulder, another the back of his hand.